His nephew, the Marquis Gian Giacomo, followed with the Countess of Ronsecco, who would have declined the honour if she had dared, for the boy’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes glazed, his step uncertain, and his speech noisy and incoherent. And there were few who smiled as they observed the drunken antics of their future prince. Once, indeed, the Regent paused, grave and concerned of countenance, to whisper an admonition. The boy answered him with a bray of insolent laughter, and flung away, dragging the pretty countess with him. It was plain to all that the gentle, knightly Regent found it beyond his power to control his unruly, degenerate nephew.
Amongst the few who dared to smile was Messer Castruccio da Fenestrella, radiant in a suit of cloth of gold, who stood watching the mischief he had made. For it was he who had first secretly challenged Gian Giacomo to a drinking-bout during supper, and afterwards urged him to dance with the pretty wife of stiff-necked Ronsecco.
Awhile he stood looking on. Then, wearying of the entertainment, he sauntered off to join a group apart of which the Lady Valeria was the centre. Her ladies, Dionara and Isotta, were with her, the pedant Corsario, looking even less pedantic than his habit, and a half-dozen gallants who among them made all the chatter. Her highness was pale, and there was a frown between her eyes that so wistfully followed her unseemly brother, inattentive of those about her, some of whom from the kindliest motives sought to distract her attention. Her cheeks warmed a little at the approach of Castruccio, who moved into the group with easy, insolent grace.
“My lord is gay tonight,” he informed them lightly. None answered him. He looked at them with his flickering, shifty eyes, a sneering smile on his lips. “So are not you,” he informed them. “You need enlivening.” He thrust forward to the Princess, and bowed. “Will your highness dance?”
She did not look at him. Her eyes were fixed, and their glance went beyond him and was of such intensity that Messer Castruccio turned to seek the object of that curious contemplation.
Down the hall came striding Messer Aliprandi, the Orator of Milan, and with him a tall, black-haired young man, in a suit of red that was more conspicuous than suitable of fashion to the place or the occasion. Into the group about the Princess they came, whilst the exquisite Castruccio eyed this unfashionable young man with frank contempt, bearing his pomander-ball to his nostrils, as if to protect his olfactory organs from possible offence.
Messer Aliprandi, trimly bearded, elegant in his furred gown, and suavely mannered, bowed low before the Lady Valeria.
“Permit me, highness, to present Messer Bellarion Cane, the son of my good friend Facino Cane of Biandrate.”
It was the Marquis Theodore, who had requested the Orator of Milan—as was proper, seeing that by reason of his paternity Bellarion was to be regarded as Milanese—to present his assumed compatriot to her highness.
Bellarion, modelling himself upon Aliprandi, executed his bow with grace.
As Fra Serafino truthfully says of him: “He learnt manners and customs and all things so quickly that he might aptly be termed a fluid in the jug of any circumstance.”
The Lady Valeria inclined her head with no more trace of recognition in her face than there was in Bellarion’s own.
“You are welcome, sir,” she said with formal graciousness, and then turned to Aliprandi. “I did not know that the Count of Biandrate had a son.”
“Nor did I, madonna, until this moment. It was the Marquis Theodore who made him known to me.” She fancied in Aliprandi’s tone something that seemed to disclaim responsibility. But she turned affably to the newcomer, and Bellarion marvelled at the ease with which she dissembled.
“I knew the Count of Biandrate well when I was a child, and I hold his memory very dear. He was in my father’s service once, as you will know. I rejoice in the greatness he has since achieved. It should make a brave tale.”
“Per aspera ad astra is ever a brave tale,” Bellarion answered soberly. “Too often it is per astra ad aspera, if I may judge by what I have read.”
“You shall tell me of your father, sir. I have often wished to hear the story of his advancement.”
“To command, highness.” He bowed again.
The others drew closer, expecting entertainment. But Bellarion, who had no such entertainment to bestow, nor knew of Facino’s life more than a fragment of what was known to all the world, extricated himself as adroitly as he could.
“I am no practised troubadour or story-singer. And this tale of a journey to the stars should be told under the stars.”
“Why, so it shall, then. They shine brightly enough. You shall show me Facino’s and perhaps your own.” She rose and commanded her ladies to attend her.
Castruccio fetched a sigh of relief.
“Give thanks,” he said audibly to those about him, “for Heaven’s mercy which has spared you this weariness.”
The door at the end of the hall stood open to the terrace and the moonlight. Thither the Princess conducted Bellarion, her ladies in close attendance.
Approaching the threshold they came upon the Marquis Gian Giacomo, reeling clumsily beside the Countess of Ronsecco, who was almost on the point of tears. He paused in his caperings that he might ogle his sister.
“Where do you go, Valeria? And who’s this long-shanks?”
She approached him. “You are tired, Giannino, and the Countess, too, is tired. You would be better resting awhile.”
“Indeed, highness!” cried the young Countess, eagerly thankful.
But the Marquis was not at all of his sister’s wise opinion.
“Tired? Resting! You’re childish, Valeria. Always childish. Childish and meddlesome. Poking your long nose into everything. Some
